


Together, For Better or For Worse (Donald Trump is Scared of His Wife)

by tommythedankengine



Category: Political RPF
Genre: Crack, F/M, M/M, Memes, OOC, Truth or Dare, it makes no sense, political RPF - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommythedankengine/pseuds/tommythedankengine
Summary: When a group of political leaders (for lack of a better word) are locked in a room together, what do they do? Play truth or dare, of course! Secrets are revealed, marriages crumble, and Bernie Sanders is in a drunken stupor. What more could you want from a piece of fiction written by a teenager who's definitely on drugs while also has never touched those mind-altering substances? Maybe she needs a beer, after this. Or some vodka.





	Together, For Better or For Worse (Donald Trump is Scared of His Wife)

**Author's Note:**

> hello i wrote this on a whim in under an hour and a half. i was in the writing mood and some good crack is what i needed. almost completely unedited, but not sorry about that. it adds to the "charm".
> 
> edit: i read this out loud to some friends and my boyfriend and he up and left the room

Gathered in the oval office, all holding mugs of hot cocoa and clad in pajama pants and shirts, the political leaders sat awkwardly. At his chair (of course, as the president, he felt the need to take control of the current situation), sat Donald Trump, wearing duck-printed pants (bright yellow with a blue background).

 

He shifted his gaze to the others in front of him. To his immediate left sat Vice President Mike Pence, his pyjamas covered in fitting lightning bolts; then, in order, was Speaker of the House Paul Ryan in regular plaid pyjamas, former President Barack Obama, in dollar sign pyjamas, and finally, looking very out of place in her silk nightie, was former Secretary of State and 2016 Democratic nominee, Hillary Clinton.

 

Trump took a large sip of his drink and grimaced when the hot liquid burned his delicate tongue. “My fellow political leaders, we are gathered here today—” to which he was promptly cut off by Hillary, who’s screeching voice clinched the ears of those near her.

 

“—We are here today because of the Russians,” she began hysterically, “If I was president this would not have happened!” Giving her a side-eyed look, Obama ran a hand over her back comfortingly. The rest of the group nervously glanced at each other.

 

“As I was saying,” Trump continued with a pointed glare, “we are here today because Melania feels that we should all reconcile. In fact,” he paused for a moment to sheepishly rub the back of his neck, glancing around the room, “she’s locked us in this room until we do something. It has to be something tremendous, I assume.”

 

“What do you mean, do something?” Speaker Paul Ryan asked before taking a sip of his drink. “We’re not children, it’s not like we can play a game. Also, you’re the president. You’re the supreme boss—”

 

“—That’s supposed to be me!” Hillary sobbed, interrupting the group once again. Speaker Paul Ryan glared at Obama, who hurried to shush and calm down the woman who was acting like a toddler. “Me… me… me…” she repeated brokenly.

 

“—So you should do something about this!” Speaker Paul Ryan concluded. Trump quickly glanced at his lap, at the group. at his hands clasped around his scalding drink, and once again at his lap. He gulped.

 

“You see… I—I can’t,” Trump admitted. Speaker Paul Ryan glanced at him, raised an eyebrow, and snorted.

 

“And why is that?” he asked.

 

“She’s my wife, you know, and you all have wives—” Trump began, trying to delay the inevitable truth he was going to have to admit.

 

“—I’m the wife, and Bill should be the first gentleman right now—” Hillary interrupted again, grossly sobbing still. Obama gently shushed her and wrapped her into a hug. Despite not particularly caring for the lady, Obama wanted to prove the chivalry was not dead and that he could be the bigger man. Plus, her sobbing just embarrassed the Democratic party as a whole, and he knew that he’d done a bad job at upstanding the honor himself.

 

“And you all have wives,” Trump repeated, more forcefully this time, “and you understand that I’m… just a bit… not a yuge amount… scared of her.” Silence reigned as the group at large took in the president’s words. One by one, even Mike Pence, the president’s trustee VP, they all began to giggle, then chortle, and then a full-blown laughing fit swept the room. Even Hillary started to giggle.

 

“You’re—You’re—You’re scared of your wife?” Speaker Paul Ryan forced out between laughs. Trump’s face went bright red, and he stuttered even more.

 

“Yes, okay! I admit it. I, the great and most powerful Donald J. Trump, am scared of my wife. Is that what you wanted to hear?” he demanded.

 

“Yes,” Obama said between laughs. “One-hundred percent. Hey… you know what’s a good idea? I want you to admit more things about yourself. Let’s play that game that my kids always play with their friends—bless them—I think it’s called truth or dare.” Immediately, the room was in an uproar.

 

“No way!” stated Speaker Paul Ryan and Mike Pence in unison. Trump just violently shook his head, and Hillary’s sobs increased.

 

“Guys, come on,” Obama whined. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” Not wanting to make the decision themselves, the other three in the group (including Hillary, although she couldn’t make eye contact with Trump and was still blubbering) looked to Trump for help.

 

Letting out a heavy sigh filled with regret, Trump said, “Fine. Maybe it’s what Melania wants from us. God knows, though,” he added in a mutter.

 

“Well, I’m not going first,” Speaker Paul Ryan said immediately. He crossed his arms and pouted like a child.

 

As Obama was moving to speak to inform the group that he would graciously take the bullet and go first, they were interrupted not by Hillary sobbing (which she still was, but more silently now) but by the door to the Oval Office flinging open. Illuminated by the backlight stood the figures of Bill Clinton and Bernie Sanders, both obviously drunk, and leaning on each other. Like a drunk hurricane, the two swept into the room, clutching onto each other, and before any could react, they shut the door, locking it.

 

“I—I am B-Bernie Sanders,” Bernie rumbled, stumbling into the area where the other figures sat. He was wearing footie pajamas and was clutching a bottle of whiskey. Privately each figure (except for Hillary, who was still crying and mumbling insanely) noted that they might need that drink to get through the night.

 

“Hi, Bernie,” chorused the group. Bill stood next to Bernie, wearing nothing but boxers that were entirely too thin, and jerked a thumb over at Bernie’s intoxicated form.

 

As if he wasn’t intoxicated himself, he said, “Look at him, the drunkard. Good thing he’s not in politics, eh?” The group laughed nervously. “So,” Bill said to fill the sudden silence, “what are y’all doing? Hey, is that Hillary? Why is she crying?” With the speed and dexterity of a 70-year-old drunk Bill made his way over the Hillary, and crouched next to her. “You okay?” he asked as if he was speaking to a five-year-old.

 

Embarrassed by her husband finding her in this position, Hillary sat up, wiped her eyes, and nodded. “Can we get on with the game?” she barked once she noticed that everyone was staring at her. Bernie, although he didn’t know what was going on, nodded clumsily and sunk to the floor, passing out on the carpet.

 

“Don’t worry about him,” Bill said.

 

Obama glanced around the room, and when he saw that everyone was paying attention, he announced that he would be the first to go. For lack of another volunteer (though Trump privately thought that Obama would do a poor job at asking questions, but that was just him), the group conceded. “Alright,” Obama said, clapping his hands together, “I choose… Trump.”

 

“Obvious,” Mike Pence spoke up but wilted under the glare of the former president.

 

“Truth or dare, Trump?” Obama asked.

 

“Dare, Barack,” Trump said, pointedly using Obama’s first name to exercise his superiority over the man. But, Obama didn’t back down. He would never back down to a cheeto; those he just eats. Trump was no different. Well, he won’t eat him… literally.

 

Without missing a beat, Obama said, “I dare you to kiss Mike Pence.” Bill Clinton gasped.

 

“Mike ‘Homocaust’ Pence?” Bill stated grandly, wildly waving his arms in shock. “Mike ‘LGBTQ BBQ’ Pence? Mike ‘10 Megawatts a Day Keeps the Gay Away’ Pence? Mike ‘Zap the Traps’ Pence? You want Trump to kiss him?”

 

“Yes,” Obama affirmed smugly. “If he doesn’t do it, he has to answer a truth question, no matter what. And I can ask him anything.” Trump had kept completely silent during the exchange, and gulped when Bill and Obama had directed their gazes to him.

 

Shakily, he said, “I-—I will.” Moving quickly, Trump slid out of his throne and onto the floor, crawling towards the vice president, who was adamantly shaking his head.

 

“No way in hell!” Mike yelled.

 

Leaning in close, Trump whispered so only the Vice President could hear the seductive words leaving his mouth. (So, naturally, everyone could hear the exchange, too, since Trump was absolute crap at whispering.) “Mikey, drop the act. It’s just one kiss. It’s not like—” he cut himself off before he could finish the statement.

 

Confused, the others just looked on as the President leaned in even closer to the VP. The room itself seemed to hold its breath as it waited for the two to lock lips. Without another ounce of hesitation, Trump pressed his lips to Pence’s in a fierce kiss, much more than was necessary. They stayed like that for several heartbeats, until Obama cleared his throat, face flushed.

 

“That’s enough,” Obama said. Heavily breathing, the pair broke apart, both of their faces a bright red. Trump looked happy, Pence afraid. “It’s your turn now, uh, Donald.” The use of his first name broke the tension that had settled during the executive branch’s passionate exchange.

 

Adjusting his tie and clearing his throat, Trump hurriedly continued. “Yes, uh, of course. Paul, dearest, truth or dare?” Speaker Paul Ryan grimaced at being called ‘dearest,’ but inclined his head regardless.

 

“Truth,” he said smoothly. It was obvious that he was not willing to risk something as embarrassing as kissing a coworker.

 

“Would you be willing to kill me and Mikey—” the group shuddered at the pet name. Even if Trump wasn't gay, he was surely playing up the part if that kiss and the nicknames were if any clue. “—to become President.”

 

Speaker Paul Ryan didn't even hesitate. “Yes.” With a look of pure, unadulterated horror, he clamped his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that!” Trump didn't look surprised, only grinning slightly and holding up his hand in a sign of solidarity.

 

“I won’t do anything with that bit of information… yet,” he said, and Speaker Paul Ryan sank back onto the group in apparent relief.

 

“Hillary, truth or dare,” Speaker Paul Ryan hurried to ask, wanting desperately to change the subject. Hillary looked up from where her head was buried in the crook (hah) of her husband’s neck.

 

“Dare,” she screeched, despite only speaking in a moderate tone.

 

“I dare you to speak for 30 seconds without doing that… ungodly screeching sound.” Speaker Paul Ryan put on a face of disgust while Bernie snorted in his sleep.

 

“You mean… my voice?” Hillary asked. “I don’t screech!”

 

“Well, honey—”

 

“Shut it, Bill,” she warned, before turning back the group. “That’s easy since I don’t screech.” Bill seemed to want to say something, but rightly and smartly kept his mouth shut for once (and his pants, but that was just common decency).

 

And so, Hillary began to speak. She gave a passionate and deliberate sounding belittlement of the current president, who looked like he wanted to interrupt, but held himself back. By the time she finished 30 seconds later, she was out of breath. The whole room was stunned.

 

“That was… I don’t know if good is the best word to use, or just empowered, but I’m afraid you failed the dare,” Speaker Paul Ryan said.

 

“What do you mean?” Hillary screeched. “I didn’t screech one bit!”

 

“You know,”  Obama said after a minute pause. “It might just be her voice.”

 

“That’s what I was trying to say!” Bill supplied.

 

“Shut it, Bill,” Hillary said. “The fact of the matter is is that I didn’t screech and this wasn’t fair and the entire thing was hacked. There, I said it.”

 

All the while Hillary was screeching, nobody had noticed that Mike Pence had fallen asleep, still clutching his mug of hot cocoa (that was most certainly cold now—the naughty boy hadn’t drunk it!), on Trump’s squishy shoulder. Of course, Trump had noticed, since it was his shoulder and was sort of attached to him.

 

“Guys,” Trump hissed. “Be quiet. Pence fell asleep and I don’t want to wake him.”

 

“Aw, caring for your lover?” Obama asked.

 

“Shut it, Barack, and don’t make me do it myself. And I will,” Trump warned.

 

Obama held up his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. I won’t poke the bears.” He grinned at his little joke, one that obviously went over Trump’s head, and turned back to the group. “Hillary, it’s your turn now.”

 

Still fuming, Hillary glanced at Bill and said sweetly, “Bill, honey, truth or dare?”

 

“Truth,” Bill answered instantly but looked crestfallen as he regretted his choice. Hillary smiled maliciously.

 

“Perfect, Billy dear, just perfect. Confess,” she barked.

 

“To what?” Bill asked, feigning innocence.

 

“Don’t play dumb with me, you manipulating old man. Sure, this is a business partnership more than a marriage, and I understand that, but at least I didn’t sleep around! How many times did you sleep with that intern?” Hilary demanded. Bill paled.

 

“I—I don’t remember. Many times,” he admitted. Hillary stared blankly at him.

 

“Multiple times? You said it was just that once! You haven’t slept with me for over 10 years and you just freely sleep with an intern whenever you feel like it and not your willing, needing wife? I have needs, Bill.”

 

“Needs that we don’t need to hear about,” Obama interjected, and the others who were awake nodded in agreement.

 

“You know that I have a proclivity to sleep around, dear,” Bill said.

 

“The fact that you can admit that so readily disgusts me. I may love you, but I don't think I’m in love with you, if I ever was. I’m not going to divorce you, but we’re better off as friends, and that's it.” And with that, Hillary pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, hobbled around a bit, and stormed to the exit door, which magically opened for her. With one disgusted look at Bill, she left the room, the door closing and locking behind her.

 

Silence reigned. After a second, Obama sighed. “I thought she would never leave,” he said.

 

“Neither did I,” Bill agreed. “But did I just get friend zoned after being married for over 30 years?” Obama clapped him on the back in a brotherly manner.

 

“I think so, man. Speaking of being friend zoned, I think that this is the perfect time just to crack open a cold one with you, the boys,” Obama said. He reached behind him and felt for something. A second later, he pulled out one of those coolers you see at cook outs. He placed it in the center of the circle.

 

“We’re… ‘the boys’ now?” Trump asked cautiously. Obama nodded.

 

“After today, yes. Here.” He handed Trump an ice-cold Bud Lite with a smile. Trump accepted it, careful not to move him or Pence, who was still sleeping, too much. Obama systematically handed out the beers, until everyone (even Bernie, who had woken up from his drunken stupor to the sound of beer) had one.

 

“To the boys!” Barack Obama said jovially.

 

“The boys!” everyone repeated and clicked beers. Together, the drank deeply and spent the rest of the night gossiping about their respective wives.

 

(Just to note, Mike Pence never was the same after that kiss.)

 

 

 

 


End file.
